by Mary Brendan
Hugh was unperturbed by the precariousness of the journey they were undertaking to Cheapside. He had complete confidence in his friend’s skill with the ribbons and knew they would arrive for appointments with their respective attorneys, in good time and good health. The frown furrowing Hugh’s brow was caused by guilt, not fear they might be pitched off the high-flyer and into the road.
When Alex had called at his lodgings earlier to give him a ride the first question Hugh had ready was concerning Lady Lonesome. A few days had passed since they’d seen one another because estate matters had taken Alex to Berkshire. But now his friend was back and, in Hugh’s opinion, looking decidedly moody...and that was making him uneasy.
‘Sorry about sending you off on a fool’s errand,’ Hugh mumbled, glancing at his friend’s lean profile. ‘Had I believed Lady Lonesome was a fraud I’d not have nagged you to get involved.’
‘If she were a fraud, I imagine she’d have turned up and attempted to part you from your money,’ Alex pointed out.
‘True...’ Hugh admitted on a rueful grimace. ‘Mayhap she was a harlot who found rich pickings elsewhere that night. If she writes again, I’ll let her know that I’m no longer able to continue our correspondence. If I hadn’t remained in the thick of things I might not have spotted Aunt Edith by the stage and that would have been a great shame.’
‘Particularly as she had with her Beatrice Dewey,’ Alex remarked drily.
Hugh suppressed a slightly self-conscious smile. ‘She is a delightful young woman, don’t you think?’
‘I think you should concentrate on putting your finances in order before you contemplate romance. You replied to that damned advertisement hoping to marry a stranger for her fortune because of the mess you’re in.’
‘You’re right on that score, too.’ Hugh sighed dolefully. ‘It’s pointless getting keen on a young woman who is as hard up for cash as I am myself.’
‘How do you know Miss Dewey is hard up?’ Alex asked sharply. He didn’t imagine that Beatrice would have divulged anything personal to Hugh so quickly, especially not in such company as was tightly congregated about them a few nights ago. It might easily have been overheard and the tabbies would delight in putting such rumours about to give their own favourites a head start in the marriage stakes.
‘Aunt Edith told me a bit about the family after I’d escorted her and Dolly Pearson home to Hammersmith.’ Hugh plunged a leg out in front of him, easing his position on the carriage seat. ‘I went in and took a nightcap with my aunt before I set off home. She told me the Dewey girls had moved to the countryside with their papa because of some difficulties the family had years ago.’ Hugh grimaced disappointment. ‘I expect Edith realised I rather took to Beatrice and she was gently putting me straight. My aunt knows I have no option but to fortune hunt for a wife. Apparently her neighbour Dolly only related bare bones about her brother’s fall from grace. But whatever happened resulted in a scandal and Walter Dewey’s financial ruin.’
Alex steered the phaeton towards the kerb outside his lawyer’s offices. He scoured his mind for some memory of the Dewey family and details of the calamity that had befallen them. A few years ago his father had still been alive and Alex had been serving on the Continent as a colonel in Wellington’s army. A great deal of the London tattle had passed him by. But he doubted his mother would have forgotten it if it had been noteworthy at the time. The Dowager Lady Blackthorne was noted for her fine memory. She was not a gossipmonger, but neither did anything interesting elude her. Alex realised it might be time to pay his mother an overdue visit...
* * *
‘If you would sign these documents, my lord, the transfer of Grantham Place will be finalised in the next day or two.’ Mr Tremaine gave his august client a dry smile, wondering why the fellow seemed rather apathetic about acquiring the land that abutted Blackthorne Hall and would increase his acreage considerably. Previously the viscount had seemed impatient to have it. Now the deal was done the victory seemed to be of little note.
Alex took up the pen and swept his name over the parchment that had been pushed towards him on Tremaine’s leather-topped desk. He had honoured the price he had first offered James Whittiker, although he knew he could have negotiated a discount once it became common knowledge the fellow had again lost heavily at Almack’s faro table. Alex was aware, but for that setback, James would never have grudgingly taken up his offer.
‘Oh...and just one more item for you to have, sir.’ Mr Tremaine had noticed his client getting immediately to his feet as though impatient to be gone. ‘You will recall, my lord, that your uncle Thomas Venner bequeathed you something. It was to be handed over once you had attained the age of thirty and only if you had taken your birthright.’
Alex nodded. At the back of his mind it struck a chord that he’d been mentioned in his uncle’s will. Alex didn’t expect it to be anything of value; his mother’s brother had been known as a gambler and a spendthrift who, despite being a prolific womaniser, had died a cash-strapped bachelor. But Alex had liked him and Thomas had returned the sentiment.
‘And if I had turned thirty while my father was still alive?’
‘The document was to be destroyed, unopened. I calculate you turned thirty last month so the letter can be released to you.’ Tremaine pulled open a drawer and drew forth a folded parchment sealed with scarlet wax.
Alex turned it in his hands. ‘Did he confide in you as to what this might be?’
‘He did not, my lord.’ Tremaine sniffed disapprovingly. ‘I rather fear it is a catalogue of his debts. That would be reason enough for your uncle to want the document withheld in your father’s lifetime. I’m aware that the old viscount did not approve of his brother-in-law,’ Mr Tremaine said with some understatement. He knew the men had hated one another. ‘Of course, if it is such a list, you are not legally obliged to pay any of it.’ He snapped his head at the letter.
‘Why wait till I turned thirty to present me with a roll-call of his creditors?’ Alex asked. ‘My father has been gone two years.’
‘It is not unknown for some people to defer in that way.’ Mr Tremaine’s sunken features lifted in a rare smile. ‘They think to salve their consciences by leaving a list for a rich relative to settle...but not too soon, you see, just in case some of the fellows demanding payment have had the good manners to also shuffle off this mortal coil.’
With a dry chuckle Alex dropped the document into a pocket and departed.
Mr Tremaine shook his head in disbelief. Not many fellows would have taken that news so lightly, but then Viscount Blackthorne had inherited from his father an estate with significant yields, and since then had greatly added to the family wealth with shrewd and successful land deals. Nevertheless, Tremaine knew the late Thomas Venner’s debts were swingeing enough to make even a young millionaire wince at the idea of settling them.
He was aware the viscount was reputed to be a rogue with the ladies. Tremaine’s opinion was that his lordship was ridiculously benevolent when he tired of a mistress. He knew this because it invariably fell to him to arrange pensions for those paramours.
In business matters Alex Blackthorne was nobody’s fool, but a fair opponent, hence his refusal to snap up Whittiker’s estate at a knock-down price despite all parties being conscious he could have done so. In matters relating to kith and kin Alex was magnanimous to a fault, as his friend Hugh Kendrick could testify. No doubt his late uncle had also noticed and schemed to make use of that trait, post mortem.
So...being as the viscount was basically moral and generous, Tremaine was glad the fellow had taken himself off with the letter unopened. He didn’t envy any person who happened to be in that gentleman’s vicinity when he broke the seal, did some sums and had his virtues tested...
Chapter Eight
Mr Tremaine was correct on two counts: the bequest did contain details of Thomas V
enner’s debts and the deceased’s nephew did spit out an oath on reading it. But it wasn’t the lengthy list of figures that had caused Alex Blackthorne to grit his teeth; it was the sight of a surname that had been haunting him since the night he’d visited Vauxhall.
The whisky tumbler held in a fist was thumped down and his booted feet, propped on the corner of his desktop, were swung to the floor.
Unable to believe what he’d seen in the shady room, he strode to the window, yanked at the blind and allowed sunlight on to his uncle’s scrawl in case his eyes had deceived him.
The paper was divided into two columns: the first held the creditor’s name and the second what the fellow was owed. What had stunned Alex had been reading that, according to his late uncle, Walter Dewey was due an unspecified amount of cash and also...a wife.
Alex knew his uncle had been deemed an eccentric by some, a reprobate by others. His own opinion now was that lunatic should be added to those character assessments. Alex had seen his uncle just a month before he died of consumption, and although Thomas had appeared gravely ill, he had conducted himself as though of sound mind.
There was only one person of Alex’s acquaintance who, beside himself, had liked Thomas Venner and that was the man’s sister. He knew his mother had adored her brother despite his failings. His father, on the other hand, had loathed his brother-in-law and had made no effort to disguise his feelings.
Having only recently returned home to Upper Brook Street, Alex strode out into the hallway of his town house, shrugging on his tailcoat. He gave his stoic butler, Robinson, an order for his choice of transport and in less than five minutes was down the graceful sweeping steps of his mansion and waiting impatiently by the kerb for his curricle to be brought round.
* * *
‘I sent a note to your papa earlier in the week and today received his reply.’ Anthony Chapman had entered the parlour, pulling a letter from a pocket.
‘He is very pleased to know you are having a nice time with us and wishes you will stay for as long as you like.’ Anthony gave the Dewey sisters a beam while tapping paper on a palm. ‘Now it is a pleasure to have you stay and you must not think that you are putting us to any trouble—’
‘Indeed you must not,’ Maude interrupted, rising from her chair by the fireside. ‘You are very welcome to remain for a month or more.’ She noticed that Elise was about to say something. She knew of the two sisters it would be Elise who would elect to go home rather than feel indebted for her keep. But Walter Dewey had sent a bank draft to meet costs and, if it were not quite as generous a sum as Maude had hoped for, it would suffice. Besides, the girl’s aunt Dolly had made it clear she would like to have her nieces as house guests before they returned to Hertfordshire. Maude had guessed the woman wouldn’t want to miss out on her youthful relatives’ sudden popularity. So between them Maude was confident they would be able to afford Beatrice and Elise a fine time in town.
Already this week they had been for tea with some ladies who had unmarried daughters, and Maude had accepted invitations for two balls for next week and numerous afternoon salons. She had felt torn between elation and frustration to have so many cards arrive that she must pick and choose and disappoint some people by turning them down.
‘Now, listen to me, girls, the dressmaker is due to arrive and your papa is keen for you both to have some pretty clothes to go out in. You must not fret that he will mind.’
‘But the cost is sure to be great and...’ Elise paused. She felt awkward discussing her father’s financial situation even with good friends such as the Chapmans who knew about, and accepted, their reduced circumstances.
‘Your papa has sent the means to meet it,’ Maude soothed quickly. ‘He understands it is a great opportunity for you to socialise with new people and secure your futures.’ To avoid further argument she turned to her own daughters who had been quietly attending to proceedings, hoping the sisters would be able to extend their stay in London.
‘Mr Whittiker is to take you for a drive at four o’clock, Fiona, so you will have your fitting with the dressmaker first.’ Maude started tidying away the pencils and charcoal with which her eldest had been sketching.
Anthony Chapman gave a frown on hearing Whittiker’s name mentioned. Lately, he’d been getting caught up in his wife’s enthusiastic ambitions for the girls and hoped that James might soon be elbowed aside by a candidate worthy of Fiona’s hand. Maude was keen to keep the fellow in reserve in case no other man showed an interest in their eldest child; Anthony would sooner have the girl at home with him than see her saddled with such a weasel. Voicing that opinion was sure to result in a flare-up with his wife, so rather than sour things too soon while there was still hope of a positive outcome, he withdrew from the room with a nod for the ladies.
As Anthony strolled the corridors in the direction of his den, he pondered on the fact that now Whittiker had sold property to Blackthorne he would again have money in his pocket, if no freehold to call his own home. James had only a short lease on his London property. A proportion of the funds from the sale of his country seat would no doubt pay off urgent creditors to keep the duns at bay, but Anthony had heard on the grapevine that Whittiker had again been spending heavily.
He’d also heard that he’d been cosying up to Mrs Porter’s granddaughter now he was feeling flush. Anthony had believed the rumour as he’d seen the popinjay posturing close to the girl in Hyde Park. Whittiker obviously felt that now he had some ready cash he’d lure a plumper dowry than Fiona’s small inheritance. Mrs Porter had boasted that she intended to leave ten thousand to the girl. Most people believed she wasn’t embellishing the amount by much. Mr Porter had been a canny fellow and had amassed quite a fortune as a tea importer prior to his early demise.
Anthony smiled; it would suit him very well—and he guessed Fiona, too—if Whittiker started making his excuses so he could go and bother the Porters.
* * *
In the parlour a lively discussion was taking place regarding the imminent arrival of the dressmaker.
‘I will choose a cheap fabric, I promise,’ Bea whispered to Elise. ‘There are some very nice cottons.’
Elise’s rueful expression strengthened on hearing that. She knew that the modiste would carry very few samples of cottons and a great many of expensive silks and satins.
‘Please don’t be offended...but I have several pairs of gloves, and other bits and pieces that I rarely wear.’ Verity had come over to Elise and Beatrice to quietly make the offer. ‘You have no need to purchase new accessories if you’d rather not. You can borrow some of mine and very welcome.’
Having escaped her mother’s droning instructions on preparations for James Whittiker’s arrival, Fiona also approached. ‘I have a few shawls I don’t need. Mama insisted I had several when I had my début. They are still in the tissue paper, although some years old.’
Elise clasped a hand of each of her friends, gratitude in her smile, words unnecessary. She was not too proud to accept such well-meant generosity. She knew the offers had been made out of consideration rather than charity to ease the load on her father.
‘We are lucky to have such kind friends as you,’ Bea said emphatically.
‘We will stay in London a little while longer and are very happy to be invited, but two new gowns only?’ Elise’s fiercely enquiring look demanded an agreement from Bea. ‘If we must go about in the same frocks some evenings, then we must.’
Bea nodded excitedly. ‘I will choose blue for one and perhaps lemon for the second.’
Caught up in the excitement Elise blurted, ‘I think I might want lemon. We could have the same...or perhaps I’d sooner a darker shade.’
Maude had been hovering by the door, aware her daughters would have more success than would she in persuading their friends to stay. On hearing the girls’ excited chatter about fabrics she smiled in relief
and slipped from the room to await Madame Joubet’s arrival.
* * *
‘To what do I owe this great honour?’
‘To the fact that I am a dutiful son,’ Alex drawled incling to give his mother a kiss on an olive-skinned cheek as she stabbed at her embroidery.
He would have straightened from his stooped position, but Susannah Blackthorne clasped him about the neck, hugging his abrasive jaw against her soft complexion. ‘You should come to see me more often, you know I miss you when you stay away too long.’ Her light Scottish accent always strengthened when she was annoyed with him.
‘I saw you at Vauxhall earlier in the week,’ Alex protested, removing her clasped fingers.
‘You saw me and gave me a wave, that’s all,’ Susannah complained, pushing away her tambour so she could get to her feet. ‘I was hoping you would talk to me, Alex. But perhaps your new friend doesn’t allow you out of her sight for too long, is that it?’
Susannah had noticed Alex escorting Celia Chase. She knew that the liaison was unlikely to last till the end of the year. Her son’s mistresses tended to see him as a challenge because he was notoriously changeable. Each successive young beauty seemed to believe she’d be the one to enslave and shackle him to her side, thus her behaviour became too possessive and hastened her departure from his life.
But that night Susannah had also glimpsed her son encircled by a gaggle of genteel ladies, some of whom appeared to be débutantes. It had been so unusual and noteworthy a sight that she had been impatient for an opportunity to bring it up. ‘Are you looking for a wife, Alex?’
Alex spluttered a laugh and placed down the teacup he’d just filled from the silver pot on the table. He slanted his mother a quizzical look. ‘You may rest assured that I have no plans to propose to my new friend.’
‘I don’t mean her.’ The fêted beauty was dismissed with a flick of an elegant finger. Susannah approached the table against which her son was resting and gazed up into his handsome features. ‘I noticed you with some sweet-looking young ladies at Vauxhall; there seemed to be quite a crowd of them. Were you interested in one in particular?’
